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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357095">home in a home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hilak'>hilak (orphan_account)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Half-Filipino Iwaizumi Hajime, Homesickness, Kinda, M/M, Pining, Summer Romance, Texting, a lot of projection, finding home is a big big theme in this, i guess?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:33:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,707</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hilak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact is Iwaizumi’s life is always changing and never permanent. The fact is he falls for places just like he would people and feels the same heartbreak when he leaves them as he would if someone he loved broke up with him. The fact is that he is restless and longs for something that will stay. The fact is that will never happen, not in a million years.</p><p>He wishes for it, anyway. Every night, he prays to find something he will love, that he will never have to let go of.</p><p>Something, or someone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>home in a home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for mint and ari, my #1 enablers!!! i love you guys so much</p><p>to all my non-mints and non-aris hello pls enjoy</p><p>content warning: panic attacks, death</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>your heart aches for something permanent in a short-lived world.</p><p>you tread on your tears until it comes to you—fully, unexpectedly, glowing and vibrant</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Summer rolls in like a storm. Pastel skies and sticky afternoons draw people out of their homes and together on the streets. The heat of June settles in and Iwaizumi feels it—deeply.</p><p>To Iwaizumi, summer means sleeping in and milk bars after lunch and eating fruit out on the front porch where everyone can see him, and where he can see everyone. It does not mean talking to the boy living across the street, or spending time with him, or falling in love with him.</p><p>Funny, because that’s pretty much all he does.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he was seven, Iwaizumi associated summers with manning his grandmother’s <em> tindahan </em> in the afternoons and playing <em> tumbang preso </em>out on the streets with the neighbourhood kids. When he turned fifteen and his father dragged him to Manila, summer meant waking up at nine and preparing breakfast, hitting up the nearest Fully Booked after lunch and reading until his eyes hurt, and picking up some food from street vendors and bringing it back home for his family to eat. If he was lucky, he could sneak in some hours for playing basketball with his friends, or volleyball by himself.</p><p>Summers in Irvine are all fruit popsicles from the freezer and setting volleyballs against the porch beams outside. It’s taking care of Grandmother while his parents are away, having pandesal and calamansi juice for <em> merienda </em>, staying up until four in the morning and waking up six hours later.</p><p>While many of Iwaizumi’s old habits from Manila bleed into his daily routine in Irvine, for the most part he feels separated from them all, like there are three Iwaizumi Hajimes in each of his past homes going about their daily lives. Different versions of himself, in varying stages of his life, all living in places he holds dear to his heart.</p><p>Cagayan brought him family. Manila brought him experience. Irvine brings him love.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks before summer vacation starts, a new family moves into the house across the street.</p><p>It is strange. Iwaizumi has lived in the same house ever since he moved here a year ago, and nobody has ever lived across from him. He watches from his bedroom window as moving trucks come through and furniture is hauled up the front steps into the house. He watches as burly men stack cardboard boxes onto the front lawn, and is still watching when an unfamiliar car rolls by and pulls up in the driveway.</p><p>A boy tumbles out of the back seat. He is tall and his brown, fluffy hair bounces with each step he takes. Iwaizumi leans in a bit, tries to catch a glimpse of his face, but he disappears inside the house before he gets the chance.</p><p> </p><p>The next day, Iwaizumi sees him again, this time out on the street as he comes home from school. He turns and sees the boy from yesterday carrying an office chair up the steps. Iwaizumi can see his face a little better now. He makes out a nose, some eyes, soft lips. He is pretty.</p><p>Iwaizumi looks away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Home. All Iwaizumi has ever wanted is home.</p><p>Home is hard to find when you move around so much—this is a truth he has had to live with ever since he arrived to Manila, hands shaking and coughing up tears, and then to Irvine, face solemn but still <em>feeling</em>.</p><p>The fact is Iwaizumi’s life is always changing and never permanent. The fact is he falls for places just like he would people and feels the same heartbreak when he leaves them as he would if someone he loved broke up with him. The fact is that he is restless and longs for something that will stay. The fact is that will never happen, not in a million years.</p><p>He wishes for it, anyway. Every night, he prays to find something he will love, that he will never have to let go of.</p><p>Something, or someone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The boy across the street is mysterious and alluring and Iwaizumi can’t stop wondering about him. There’s just something about him. Something special. Perhaps it has something to do with his brown, fluffy hair, falling in soft tufts over his brows. Or his smile, bright and sweet. Iwaizumi can see it all the way from his porch.</p><p>Sometimes, the boy comes out to play volleyball by himself, and Iwaizumi watches, if only because he has no other choice. Even when he’s cooped up inside his room, he can hear it—the hollow thumps of the Mikasa volleyball, bouncing up and down the pavement, rattling against the garage door with each powerful serve.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi loves volleyball. His father had brought him to watch a game between two university teams only a few days after he had arrived in Manila. Iwaizumi had watched, fifteen years old at the time, freshly torn away from his life in the province. He had stood there among the crowd, his eyes bright and fists clenched at his side, and found love in a place he was so ready to resent.</p><p>So he took it up in middle school, and high school, too. He had it in Manila. He has it now in California. Volleyball is a constant in a life where nothing is guaranteed. More than anything, he is grateful for volleyball.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The boy is good. And he is handsome. Iwaizumi wants to know his name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He learns it soon enough. Grandmother tells him everything while he folds freshly-washed laundry in the living room. Iwaizumi pretends he isn’t listening closely, but the information sticks in his brain like glue.</p><p>“His name is Oikawa Tooru. His parents are professors. He plays volleyball. He is an excellent student.” Grandmother relays the information back to him like she’s reciting lines. Iwaizumi keeps his gaze on the clothes in his lap. “He lives with his aunt. Her name is Eiko. She is absolutely lovely, Hajime. Offered me some tea. And she has a son named Takeru. He’s about eight, or nine, maybe. They seem like a wonderful family.”</p><p>Iwaizumi thinks. He thinks, <em> He sounds pretty okay. </em> And then, <em> Oikawa is a strange name. </em> And then, <em>He sounds like my worst nightmare. </em></p><p>“That’s good to know, Grandmother,” says Iwaizumi. “Would you help me bring these to the closets now?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A few days later, Iwaizumi shows up at Oikawa’s doorstep bearing gifts.</p><p>Bread, to be more precise.</p><p>Oikawa opens the door, clad in his boxers and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers. He looks at Iwaizumi, then the bread in his hands, then at Iwaizumi again.</p><p>“I’m Iwaizumi,” Iwaizumi says. He gestures to the bread. “A housewarming gift.”</p><p>Oikawa invites him inside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oikawa’s living room feels ancient in the best way possible. Even though they had only moved in recently, everything from the squeaky couches to the patterned rug on the floor seems well-loved and cozy.</p><p>Still, Iwaizumi feels a little out of place. A small arrangement of tea and other snacks sits on the coffee table between them. He is holding a green ceramic teacup in his hands. It is quiet and uncomfortable and he wants to die a little.</p><p>“My grandmother baked this bread for your family,” Iwaizumi says. “It’s a little late as a housewarming gift, but she thought it would be nice to give it either way.”</p><p>“Better late than never. We appreciate it, really. Tell her it was very kind of her.”</p><p>“Yes,” Iwaizumi says. He raises the cup to his lips and pretends to drink. <em> Why did I do this? Why am I here?</em> He sets his cup down and swallows. “I had better get going. I have… school stuff.”</p><p>
  <em>(No, he doesn’t. School ended two days ago.)</em>
</p><p>Oikawa has no idea. Or if he does, he does not show it. “Oh. Right. I forgot you still had school.” He stands. “Well, I’ll see you around. Thank you for the bread.”</p><p>Iwaizumi nods. “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Yeah, there is no way they’ll be friends.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Do you play volleyball?”</p><p>The question comes to him on a particularly sticky afternoon, as the blue sky bleeds into orange. Iwaizumi looks up from his battered copy of <em> Fire from Heaven </em>and meets the gaze of Oikawa Tooru.</p><p>His first thought is, <em> What the fuck? </em> and then, <em> Fire. </em> Iwaizumi’s breath is caught in his throat. <em> He has fire in his eyes. </em></p><p>He nods <em> Yes</em>, because he does play volleyball, and Oikawa smiles. If it was bright from far away, it is blinding up close.</p><p>“Great. Wanna play?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They find a grassy slot near the park around the block and start doing simple drills. They fall into a steady rhythm of bumping, setting, and spiking.</p><p>Oikawa lets out a low whistle. “You’re good. Have you been playing for a while?” His voice sounds sly, mostly mischievous. Iwaizumi is not sure what to think of it.</p><p>“Yes.” His response is sharp but level. “Where did you learn?”</p><p>“Tokyo. I went to an international school there,” Oikawa says. “You’re half, right? Half Filipino?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Have you ever lived in Japan?” </p><p>Iwaizumi receives the ball. “No. I lived in the Philippines for most of my life with my dad’s side of the family.”</p><p>“And your mother’s side?” Oikawa’s turn. Iwaizumi’s eyes zero in on the subtle crook of Oikawa’s fingers when he sets—calculated, careful, perfect. He leaves no room for mistakes.</p><p>Iwaizumi hesitates. “Well. I don’t see them very often.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>Oikawa spikes the ball over. Iwaizumi catches it with his hands. “It’s getting dark,” he says. “I should probably head back home. I have chores.”</p><p>“That’s fine. Play again someday?”</p><p>Iwaizumi nods. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And so they play and play until their forearms burn and their foreheads shine with sweat, and Iwaizumi learns more and more about volleyball and setting and Oikawa, but it still feels like he knows nothing at all. No matter how many afternoons they spend bumping, setting, and hitting the ball to one another, Oikawa seems like some sort of mystery, a puzzle Iwaizumi is dying to solve.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Somehow after that, casual volleyball practices turn into hangouts on the porch. Hangouts turn into quick visits to the convenience store two blocks away into hanging out on the roof and altogether it cumulates into something like friendship, except it’s so sudden and jarring it feels wrong to even call it that. </p><p>Maybe friendship has always felt like this. It has been a long while. Iwaizumi cannot be sure.</p><p>In two weeks, Oikawa becomes a teacher of himself, and Iwaizumi learns; he learns that Oikawa likes milk bread and likes drinks with jelly chunks in them. He learns that Oikawa did ballet when he was younger, but gave it up a few years ago. Oikawa gives Iwaizumi his number, adds him on Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, even shows him his room one day.</p><p>(Iwaizumi drinks in the sight: Fading periwinkle walls. A small bed frame pushed up against one corner and a stout desk sitting across from it. Volleyball posters plastered up everywhere and two shelves packed with medals, trophies, certificates.)</p><p>Oikawa does all this without Iwaizumi even asking him to. It is surprising, but not unwelcome. Iwaizumi feels a lot of things (grateful, overwhelmed, baffled). Most of all, he feels obliged to return the favor.</p><p>So he buys Oikawa his favourite peach drink at the nearest K-Mart after drills, and invites him along to his grocery runs, and shows him his room and the hideous blue walls covered with old band posters. He shows him his cassette players, his manga collection, some of the sketchbooks he had filled up in his free time back in the Philippines.</p><p>They make a nest out of Oikawa’s roof and bring up Monster Energy drinks to sip on while gazing at the sky. They Facetime a week into becoming friends and Oikawa shows him his deliberate skincare routine, shows him all his essences and creams and other things Iwaizumi doesn’t know anything about.</p><p>It feels weird and scary and risky but it also feels <em> right</em>, breaking down the walls he had put all around himself, letting Oikawa into his life like he’s meant to be here. Iwaizumi ought to be a little more careful, but it’s been so long since he has met anyone who made him feel so excited, and he’s not about to waste the opportunity.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks later, Iwaizumi thinks it is safe to say that he has made himself a new friend.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They are lying down on Oikawa’s roof and the sun is setting. It is peaceful and quiet and they watch as the trees sway gently in the California wind. It has been four weeks since they’ve met, six since Oikawa had moved here. Iwaizumi counts the days because it helps him hold onto it, make sure it is real.</p><p>“What’re you thinking about, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa’s voice is light and airy and unreadable.</p><p>“I think I have to go home soon. Take care of my grandma.”</p><p>“You’re always so busy.” </p><p>“My parents aren’t home often. That’s why.”</p><p>“Well, my parents aren’t home at all, and I still manage to find time to have fun.”</p><p>Iwaizumi huffs. “That’s different. You still have your aunt. It’s just me and my grandmother. And I have to take care of her.” He leans back on his elbows, still keeping his gaze fixed on the sunset before him. “It’s been like this my entire life. My parents were hardly ever home, even in the Philippines.”</p><p>“And you were never upset?”</p><p>“I was never upset,” Iwaizumi confirms.</p><p>They fall silent for a few moments and listen to the incessant chirping of cicadas and the light afternoon bustle below them.</p><p>Then Oikawa says, “I wish I was more like you.”</p><p>Iwaizumi stays quiet. He glances over at his new friend—considers the subtle slope of his nose, the thick curl of his lashes. “Me, too,” he says, and they leave it at that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Oikawa changes. Or, rather, Iwaizumi’s perception of him does. He turns into someone Iwaizumi enjoys spending time with, who he smiles a lot around, who he talks to about anything and everything.</p><p>It’s a delicate shift, and it takes a while for Iwaizumi to feel it. Oikawa embeds himself into Iwaizumi’s schedule so naturally he almost doesn’t notice. Oikawa is everything he has ever wanted—everything he has been wishing for in the past year he has spent in this dull town. And it is so much all at once he almost doesn’t want to trust it, but the walls are breaking down, and he’s already falling,</p><p>falling deeper.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They spend Oikawa’s birthday on the roof. A small cake, slightly smushed and made with love by Iwaizumi, sits between their bodies.</p><p>“Thanks for the cake,” Oikawa says. He is quiet. “Did you make it?”</p><p>“Yes. My grandmother helped me.”</p><p>“Tell her I said thank you as well.” Oikawa shifts a bit, tugging the thick sleeves of his hoodie past his knuckles. “I was supposed to have a birthday party, you know. My auntie wanted to arrange one.”</p><p>“But?”</p><p>“I didn’t really want one. Seemed like too much work. And I wouldn’t have enough friends to have a good party. So we just had dinner together, the three of us.”</p><p>Does he sound wistful? Does he wish he was with someone else? Iwaizumi can’t quite tell. “Simple is nice. Simple is good,” he says, almost reassuring.</p><p>“Yes. Can you check the time?”</p><p>“11:56. Get the candles out.” He takes off his wristwatch and places it in between them, where they can both see.</p><p>Oikawa takes a small pack of colourful candles out of his back pocket and rips it open. He sticks two of them in the fluffy cake, a big <em> 17 </em>. Iwaizumi takes out his lighter and lights the candles. He checks his watch again. 11:59.</p><p>“One minute,” he announces.</p><p>Oikawa hums. “Thank you for this,” he says. “All of this—you know, even if it isn’t a big birthday bash, I appreciate it. The cake, the candles, the sky… It feels more special this way.”</p><p>Iwaizumi nods. They both watch as the watch ticks midnight. Oikawa blows out his candles.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” Iwaizumi says.</p><p>It’s dark but the moon shines on his face and Iwaizumi can see his smile, bright and happy and true.</p><p>A quiet celebration.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oikawa is over for merienda.</p><p>It is strange. Iwaizumi feels hyperaware of every word he says, each move he makes, as if Oikawa is watching him at all times. He pours him a cup of calamansi juice, keeps his eyes fixed on the way the juice flows out of the pitcher. <em>Like pee, </em>his mind provides. He almost hits himself. <em>Shut the fuck up.</em></p><p>“Hajime has told me so much about you,” says Grandmother. She is sitting at the head of the table, smiling, looking like she knows something they do not. “He’s been interested ever since you moved here.”</p><p>Oikawa makes a vaguely surprised noise. Iwaizumi scowls. “Don’t say it like that,” he mumbles, now spreading some cheese on round pieces of bread. He pretends he isn’t intimidated by Oikawa, sitting right across him. He pretends he is not simultaneously thrilled that he is sitting on his dining table. He makes for a fantastic con artist.</p><p>Iwaizumi slides the saucer of cheese bread in front of Oikawa. “Try this. And the calamansi juice, too.”</p><p>Oikawa takes a sip of the juice first. “I like it. It’s sour and sweet. It’s like lemonade,” he says. And for the bread, “I like it. Reminds me of milk bread.”</p><p>“It’s called pandesal,” Iwaizumi says, looking pleased. He takes the plate of pandesal and plops two, three, four more pieces onto Oikawa’s dish. “Here, have some more.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“School is starting in a few months,” Tooru says. They are at the nearest 7/11. A pile of snacks rests between them. Honey Butter Chips, Doritos, Lays, Pringles. There are also gummy bears, sour gummy worms, biscuits with chocolate filling. A Slurpee. Fruit juice with jelly chunks for Oikawa. Gatorade for Iwaizumi.</p><p>He raises the blue bottle to his lips. He doesn’t really like Gatorade. “Do you know where you’re going yet?” he asks.</p><p>“Not yet. My aunt’s looking for schools. Still, though. I can’t believe I’m already in senior year.”</p><p>“Tell me about it.” Iwaizumi stirs their Slurpee. He doesn’t like Slurpees much, either. “You should try and get in the same school as me. So we can be classmates.”</p><p>Oikawa laughs. “You’d really want that?”</p><p>“Of course not. I was just playing with you.” Actually, there is nothing Iwaizumi would like more in this world. Even though he has been in Irvine for a while, he’s never been great at making friends and keeping them. His first friend here in California was another Japanese boy named Ushijima—tall, broad, a bit intimidating, but softspoken and kind. They got along well. He moved away at the end of last year. Iwaizumi misses him.</p><p>Oikawa is the first friend Iwaizumi has made ever since Ushijima left, and he can’t explain it, but something feels different about their friendship. Permanent. Like it won’t go away as easily and quickly as the others. He wonders if Oikawa feels the same.</p><p>“Anyway, whichever school I get into, you’re still gonna be my best friend,” Oikawa says with an air of finality. “I don’t think I can ever meet someone like you anywhere else, Iwa-chan.”</p><p>Iwaizumi flushes and turns away. “Whatever,” he mutters, because what else is he supposed to say? What kind of person says stuff like that, anyway?</p><p>A fleeting thought passes through his brain. It is small and gentle but ever-present: <em> What if I have a crush on this boy? </em></p><p>The thought flusters him so badly he almost forgets how to act like a normal person. “Whatever,” he says again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later, Iwaizumi locks himself up in his bathroom and stares at his stupid, red-faced reflection. “I’m crazy,” he decides, and he turns on the faucet and washes his hands. “I’m crazy. I’m insane. <em> Fuck. </em> What the hell?”</p><p>
  <em> Do I like Oikawa Tooru? The boy across the street? My newest friend? Do I have a crush on my newest friend? Am I really that stupid? </em>
</p><p>He turns off the faucet, dries his hands on the sides of his pants. “Fuck,” he says again, with fervor.</p><p>“Hoy,” Grandmother chastises from outside the bathroom.</p><p>“Sorry,” he calls out, and turns on the faucet and washes his hands again. <em> I’m crazy. I’m fucking insane. Fuck. Shit. Do I have a crush on Oikawa Tooru? </em></p><p>Does Iwaizumi Hajime have a crush on Oikawa Tooru?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He decides the next day: <em> No, I do not. </em></p><p>He decides this the second he wakes up, tells himself over and over in the mirror while he does his bed, cleans his room, brushes his teeth. <em> I do not have a crush on Oikawa Tooru. </em></p><p>Whatever happened the night before, whatever he felt, was not him. It was the sick, twisted version of him, looped up on 7/11 Slurpees and Gatorades and whatever chemicals they possessed. Yes. That’s it.</p><p>Isn’t there a term for this? Manifestation? Is he manifesting anti-feelings towards his only friend? Is this the kind of person he has become?</p><p>He stares at the breakfast roll Grandmother had prepared for him this morning, thinking hard. <em> Do I have a crush on Oikawa? </em></p><p>“Eat,” says Grandmother, pushing his plate closer towards him. </p><p>“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says, and burns the pads of his fingers from picking the breakfast roll up too fast.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They don’t hang out for another week. Iwaizumi is glad to keep his distance and mills over his thoughts and feelings by himself. In retrospect, leaving a bisexual man alone to think of his best friend may not be the best idea, but no one is there to stop him. So he ponders.</p><p>
  <em> Do I like Oikawa? No, I don’t. But he has nice legs. And I like his hair. Fuck. I don’t like him. There is no reason to like him. He is Oikawa. But I liked when he came over for merienda and he didn’t complain about the food. I liked how he just sat there and ate pandesal and I can tell Grandma likes him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Not many people like Filipino food. Ushijima liked pandesal. But he’s not here anymore. My white friends don’t like pandesal. They call calamansi juice lemonade. Calamansi juice is not lemonade. It is calamansi juice. What the hell.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I like how when we go to 7/11, he always offers to pay, even though I know he can’t afford to buy all of it. Still, it’s the thought that counts. He’s funny, too. When he doesn’t try, he makes me laugh so much, but I don’t show it. He is my first friend. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I shouldn’t ruin this. That’s not fair to me or Oikawa. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oikawa. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Yeah, no. Iwaizumi definitely does not have a crush on him.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>The next week, Iwaizumi comes over to help paint the walls of Oikawa’s bedroom.</p><p>“I got sick of the blue,” Oikawa explains, helping Iwaizumi dismantle the large trophy shelf from the wall. “I want it to be a creamy white. Nice and warm, not like a dull, plain white, you know?”</p><p>Iwaizumi can’t tell the difference, but he keeps his mouth shut for Oikawa’s sake and helps disassemble his room and repaint it for the rest of the afternoon.</p><p>
  <strike>(Oikawa notes Iwaizumi’s buff arms, so much thicker than his. It’s kind of hot.)</strike>
</p><p>They’re done by nightfall, and Iwaizumi stays over for dinner. Oikawa’s aunt is energetic and spunky (not unlike Oikawa himself) and she makes some onigiri for them to eat out on the roof.</p><p>The air is thick and sticky and Iwaizumi’s still sweating from that afternoon’s paint job, but he keeps quiet and obediently listens to Oikawa’s mindless rambling. They work best this way, with Oikawa chatting away and Iwaizumi just listening. He’s content, even without anything important to say, and Oikawa seems fine with it, too.</p><p>Suddenly, Oikawa sits up and looks at him. “What was Cagayan like? Growing up there. I want to know more about it.”</p><p>Iwaizumi frowns. “Well, I mean, I don’t remember much.” This is a lie—he remembers most of it. The warmth of the city is etched in his bones so that years later, he still dreams of it, remembers each narrow crevice of his hometown.</p><p>Oikawa looks determined. “Tell me about it. As much as you remember. I want to know everything.”</p><p>Iwaizumi is in no position to deny him, so he tells him.</p><p>He tells him about his grandmother’s store, nestled in a busier part of town, how his father would bring him there on the weekdays when he had work. Iwaizumi recalls the feeling of being surrounded by all those snacks without being able to eat them, though Grandmother usually allowed him to take one at the end of the day.</p><p>It wasn’t only the snacks that entranced him—the store itself was small but comfortable, and had a charm that his old seven-year-old self couldn’t resist. Grandmother would often seat him on her lap and sing to him, or tell him stories, or they would watch cartoons on the TV mounted on one wall.</p><p>“I miss that place,” Iwaizumi says now. He had almost forgotten he was with Oikawa. He turns around to look at him and offers him a smile, crooked and boyish. “I’ll bring you there one day.”</p><p>Oikawa sees through him then, so that he is no longer looking at seventeen-year-old Iwaizumi, but the Iwaizumi from ten years ago—small, rowdy, so much like he is now, but completely different, also. Seven-year-old Iwaizumi is full of hope. He has not lost anything yet.</p><p>Waves of quiet shock roll down Oikawa’s back and when he blinks and opens his eyes again, Iwaizumi is back—the normal Iwaizumi, the one of the present.</p><p>“It sounds great,” Oikawa says, and lies down flat on his back again, his heart aching for a place he has never been.</p><p>He wonders how Iwaizumi feels.</p><p>Truthfully, Iwaizumi feels only slightly homesick. It was a long time ago. He had gotten over it growing up. That’s how it goes. Things that matter to you when you’re little just fade away when you grow older, until it is just a shell of something that had once been so big in your life. But he does wish he had visited Cagayan at least once when he was in middle school. He does wish for a lot of things.</p><p>“We make a good team,” Oikawa claims suddenly. His eyes are up on the stars. Iwaizumi had been staring at the quiet passersby on the sidewalk below them.</p><p>He nods, taking a thoughtful bite of onigiri. His gaze flits up to the sky, the inky blueness of it. “Yes, we do.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later that night, Iwaizumi nightmares.</p><p>This is the one thing only Iwaizumi knows about himself—he nightmares a lot.</p><p>He isn’t sure why. He just knows that it started when he was fifteen years old. He had woken up in the middle of the night gasping for breath and soaked in his own sweat and tears. Panic attacks followed shortly after. Then fear of the dark. He had never told anybody. Not even Grandmother.</p><p>Tonight, he dreams that he is running, and his limbs are broken and bruised. Though he looks back over his shoulder frequently, he is never able to fully focus on the face of his pursuer. Every time he changes direction, it speeds up, and he has to run faster and faster. Eventually, his legs give out and whatever is chasing him catches up. It grabs him by his arms. It envelopes him in darkness and squeezes him until he can hardly breathe. Strangely, he sees the faces of his parents, his grandmother, his little cousins in the Philippines who he had almost forgotten about. They watch glumly as he suffocates.</p><p>When he wakes up, his lungs still feel squashed and beaten up. He is sweating and crying and clutching at his chest. “Fuck,” he says, breathless. “Fuck.”</p><p>He sits up and takes a look at his surroundings. He is still in his room. It is dark. His head is swimming and he swears he can make out pairs of eyes in the dark corners of his room. He feels watched and unsafe.</p><p>Grandmother is asleep. His parents are probably home and asleep, too.</p><p>Iwaizumi grabs his phone from his nightstand. It’s only two in the morning. He had gotten home four hours ago after painting Oikawa’s bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Hey</p><p>Can we call please?</p><p> </p><p>Oikawa responds about thirty seconds later.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>what happened? is everything ok?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>I had a nightmare</p><p>Like i’m being serious rn</p><p>I think im about tohave a panic attack</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>hold on</p><p>ill have to be quiet</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>That’s ok. Please</p><p>I just need u</p><p>To  be hwere.</p><p>I woudl text but its hard tot ype. Shaking badly</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>thats fine. i’ll call u now</p><p> </p><p>He does. The line rings once before Iwaizumi picks up.</p><p>Oikawa speaks first. “Iwa-chan. You okay?” His voice is noticeably softer. “Well, obviously, you’re not okay, but—how can I help you? What do you need?”</p><p>“I’m having a panic attack. You don’t have to do much. Just. Just be here. Please.”</p><p>“Of course. Of course. I’m here. I’m here, Iwaizumi.”</p><p>“Yes.” Iwaizumi closes his eyes, focuses on the sound of Oikawa’s breathing, deep and steady over the phone. “Yes. Thank you.”</p><p>“Shh. Just breathe, alright? In, out. In, out. You’re doing great.”</p><p>Quiet follows after, and Iwaizumi drops his head back on his pillow and takes several deep breaths, one after the other. On the first breath, he thinks of Cagayan and the lush green trees on every corner; on the second, he thinks of Manila, the sleek buildings he would pass by on the way to school; on the third, Oikawa—his voice, his laugh, his presence.</p><p>Iwaizumi relaxes his lungs, lets all the air trickle out like he’s deflating. His heartbeat slows. His hands unclasp from the bedsheets. Once he is sure he can breathe normally, he presses his phone closer to his ear and says, “Thank you, Oikawa.”</p><p>His hands have stopped shaking. He rubs them together, cracks his knuckles just to regain control over them.</p><p>Oikawa hums. “No problem. Go back to bed. I’ll stay til you sleep.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Iwaizumi whispers, clenching his fists until he can feel them again. <em>Thankyouthankyouthankyou.</em></p><p>He falls asleep to the steady sound of Oikawa’s breathing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Home is a funny word.</p><p>It can mean a lot of things. Where you come from. Where you live. Where your parents come from, where <em> they </em>live. Or it could be a person. Your father. Your grandmother. The boy who lives across the street.</p><p>The boy who lives across the street. Oikawa. Home. A lovely set of synonyms.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Neither of them speak about the nightmare, or Iwaizumi’s panic attack, or the fact that something had shifted between the two of them ever since. Instead, they keep doing what they always do—play volleyball, hang out at their local convenience store, prowl the uneventful streets of Irvine.</p><p>Iwaizumi is okay with this. He pretends not to notice how Oikawa starts to look at him very frequently for an uncomfortable amount of time. He turns a blind eye on the coy gestures, the nicknames, the very obvious flirting.</p><p>On one hand, he is not stupid—he has an inkling of an idea what it all means. On the other hand, <em>he is not stupid</em>, so he chooses not to give him a reaction.</p><p>He knows it will not do him any good. It will not do him any good at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The following week, he is allowed some reprieve from Oikawa’s antics when his parents come home, sit him down on the couch, and tell him, quite flatly: “Your father and grandmother are moving back to the Philippines. It is safer for her there. They will leave in a few days.”</p><p>Iwaizumi can only stare.</p><p>Everything about it is surprising, to say the least, but he obliges and helps load his grandmother’s belongings into her luggage, if only to spend a little more time with her before she leaves.</p><p>(Change is ever-present in his life. He has established this a long time ago. His grandmother leaving should be less of a surprise to him, but he hides his distress well.)</p><p>“Remember everything I told you, Hajime,” Grandmother warns, watching and sitting at the edge of her bed. Her tiny room is stripped clean from all her belongings, and it’s unsettling. Apart from his own room, Iwaizumi has spent more time in here than anywhere else in their house, taking care of her, spending time with her. If he were any other person, he might have been glad to see her go after spending the majority of his teenage years tending to her. But he’s Iwaizumi, and she’s the only person he looks up to, so his heart aches.</p><p>He keeps his face steady and tearless for the time being. “You told me lots of things, Grandmother,” he points out, sitting on the ground near her feet. He’s busy folding one of her nighttime gowns. “It’ll be hard to remember them all.”</p><p>“Then remember the most important ones,” she says. “Guard your heart and be kind. Find comfort in other people instead of always relying on yourself. I worry about you, Hajime.” The last sentence jars him a little, but he looks up and smiles.</p><p>“You don’t have to anymore.” Iwaizumi places the gown inside the luggage. “I’ve found someone already.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Father and Grandmother leave the following Sunday. Iwaizumi decides not to go to the airport with them. He watches as his parents pull out of the driveway, his grandmother’s kiss still lingering on his cheeks and forehead. He raises a hand in farewell, though he can’t see whether or not it was returned.</p><p>Once the car is completely out of sight, he turns and goes back inside. He sweeps the floor, cleans the kitchen, rearranges the shelves. By the time he is done cleaning the house, the day has grown hotter and the sun is spilling out onto the street. Usually by now he would be with Grandma in her room, doing puzzles to pass time, or with Oikawa, lounging in his bedroom.</p><p>Iwaizumi pulls out his phone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Nobody’s home</p><p>Wanna hang out</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>sure</p><p>i’ll bring CDs</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They spend the rest of the day watching movies and Iwaizumi cooks some instant noodles for both of them to share. He tells Oikawa everything. How his dad and grandmother had left so suddenly. How they might not be coming back. About Grandmother’s illness, which he has never told anyone else about.</p><p>Oikawa nods along. He’s a good listener, and he looks like he cares. Iwaizumi relaxes his shoulders.</p><p><em> I can trust him, </em> he thinks.</p><p>At the end of it, Oikawa places a hand over his and says, honestly, truly, “Good job. You’ve done enough.” And Iwaizumi can do nothing but sit there and accept it, accept the fact that he has done enough, that they are proud of him, and for the barest moment, feels as though he is melting.</p><p>
  <em> You have done enough. They are proud of you. </em>
</p><p>Tears sting his eyes. “Thank you, Oikawa.” He means it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just like that, the ache subsides. Even if it’s just the two of them, Iwaizumi feels like the house is full.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi spends the next few days at home by himself, cleaning up the house and trying to fill in the empty spaces where he usually spent time with his grandmother. Oikawa, now ridden with the responsibility to choose a fitting school for himself, makes up for his sudden absences by overloading his phone with texts and updates.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>were checking out a new school downtown</p><p>this is 5 schools that ive been to now</p><p>5. Five, iwa-chan</p><p>and i still havent found one that i rly liked</p><p>maybe i should just drop out (＋_＋)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>I don’t think your parents would appreciate that</p><p>You know with them being professors and all</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>thats true</p><p>i could convince them somehow tho</p><p>i’m good at that</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>You’re a menace</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>what have u been doing recently</p><p>i miss hanging out with u (TヘT)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>It’s only been a few days. You’ll live</p><p>Come over on Friday</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>no YOU come over</p><p>i wna hang out on da roof</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>One of these days it’s gonna break</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>fine</p><p>ur roof?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Why do we need to be on a roof</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>idk! sentimental value!</p><p>i thought hanging out on roofs was like</p><p>our Thing yk??</p><p>and anyway it’s better than ur room</p><p>ur room smells</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>No it doesn’t??</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>it does. ur just used to it</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>don’t leave me on read dipshit</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>FINE</p><p>i’ll come over -__-</p><p>can we have that noodle thing</p><p>what’s it called</p><p>idk i dont wanna butcher the name</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Pancit canton?? LMFAO</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>don’t make fun of me</p><p>but yeah that let’s have that it’s yummy</p><p>also the calamansi thing</p><p>and pandesal</p><p>owo</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Sure if that’s what u want</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>yayayaaya o(&gt;ω&lt;)o</p><p>gtg we arrived at the school</p><p>ITS BIG WTF</p><p>okay bye love ya</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Gl</p><p>Love u too</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi has had his fair share of crushes in the past. He likes to think he is used to it by now—the risky thrill of it, how his heart lurches when he sees that person, how it feels like he might die in the best way possible.</p><p>Yes, he knows how it goes by now. So why, then, when Oikawa flashes him his smile, when his hands land on Iwaizumi’s shoulder for the barest of moments, when he looks at him with those eyes born of fire—why does Iwaizumi feel like he’s lost his balance, like his fingers are slipping from the little control he had on his heart?</p><p>Why is he falling for Oikawa, of all people?</p><p> </p><p>Grandma’s voice tickles the back of his ear. <em> Guard your heart. Find comfort in other people instead of always relying on yourself. </em></p><p>He can’t very well do both at the same time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Don’t come over today</p><p>No matter what.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>?</p><p>are u homophobic or somethinf</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>?</p><p>No</p><p>My mom is home</p><p>For the first time in like a long time</p><p>So don’t come over.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>damn</p><p>u could have just said so</p><p>(-_-)</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>LMFAOO</p><p> </p><p>“Who are you talking to?”</p><p>Iwaizumi glances up at his mother, her arched brow and questioning eyes. She’s standing across from him, tall and poised and beautiful, cutting carrots. It is strange seeing her like this—seeing her at all, really. </p><p>“Oikawa. My friend. He lives across the street.”</p><p>“Friend?” Mother prompts.</p><p>“Yes. I like him a lot. I think I would like to date him.”</p><p>“That’s nice, honey.” She scoops the chunks of carrots into a bowl. “Could I meet him one day?”</p><p>“You will once I make him my boyfriend.”</p><p>“You really like him that much?”</p><p>“More than anything.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>how was lunch w ur mama</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>It was good</p><p>We had tonkatsu</p><p>And egg rolls</p><p>And rice</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>wtf!!!</p><p>ihy why couldnt i come!!!</p><p>she would hvae loved me</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>WHYD U LEAVE ME ON READ</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>hey.</p><p>can u come over</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Okeyy</p><p>Just give me a sec</p><p>Have u eaten yet?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>no</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Wanna go out??</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Like</p><p>Bruh</p><p>Like for dinner</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>?!!?!?!</p><p>sure</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Like at McDonalds</p><p>Or something</p><p>Fuck</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>LMFAOOO????</p><p>okok lemme get ready</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Kk</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>Infatuation messes up your brain. Iwaizumi knows this when he sees Oikawa stuff his face with fries and nuggets and cheeseburger and does not react all too violently, and does not feel obliged to smack him across the face like he would with any other person. Instead, he finds it endearing, in the grossest way possible. He does not stop watching.</p><p>He does put down his burger, though.</p><p>“Where do you want to go after this?” Iwaizumi asks, stirring his glass of Coke.</p><p>“Th’roo, may’e?” Oikawa’s words come out muffled. “Th’sky’ll be c’ear tonigh’.”</p><p>Iwaizumi winces. “You’re fucking disgusting,” he says, and hands him a tissue.</p><p>Oikawa grins, face splattered with ketchup and grease and there is pickle in his teeth. Iwaizumi blinks like he’s restarting his brain and is surprised to find his heart still swells at the sight, nasty as it is.</p><p><em> Maybe I should tell him, </em>he thinks.</p><p>His grandmother’s voice, etched into his brain, responds, <em> Yes, you should. </em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tiles on the roof are hard and uncomfortable under Iwaizumi’s ass. He has never noticed it until now. It has never bothered him before until now.</p><p>He is hyperaware of everything. The tiles under his ass. The starts overhead, twinkling thoughtfully. Oikawa, next to him, completely unaware of his pounding heart.</p><p>Iwaizumi swallows. The words come out in a rush. “Oikawa. What if. Hypothetically. I said that I liked you. And I wanted you to be my boyfriend.”</p><p>Oikawa whips his head around. “<em>Eh</em>?”</p><p>He looks so panicked it makes Iwaizumi panic and he scoots away, nearly falling off the fucking roof, the heat in his face spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Hypothetically!” he sputters. “I said hypothetically!”</p><p>“You have a crush on me?”</p><p>Iwaizumi buries his face in his hands. “I said <em> hypothetically</em>, Oikawa,” he wails, voice muffled. His hands feel numb. His legs have fallen asleep. His face is so, so hot and his heart is still knocking like crazy against his ribs and it’s so stupid <em> he’s so stupid </em> this was a mistake <em> he made a mistake. </em></p><p>Absolute silence. Iwaizumi keeps his face in his shaky hands. The darkness taunts him, like, <em> You just confessed to your dream boy and now he’s not even saying anything! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! </em></p><p>He wants to cry, just a little, if only to ease how overwhelmed he feels. He thinks: <em> The universe hates me.</em></p><p>The stars whisper in return: <em> No, we do not. </em></p><p>Iwaizumi lifts his head and risks a glance at Oikawa, who is staring up at the sky resentfully like it has done something to him. Oikawa closes his eyes.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. Iwaizumi’s heart jumps to his throat, and he prepares himself for the likely words that will trail after his mumbled apology: <em> You’re not my type. I don’t feel the same way. I don’t look at you like that. You’re like a brother to me. </em>Instead he says, a little choked, “Give me a minute. I’m having trouble breathing. My heart’s beating super fast.”</p><p>He takes Iwaizumi’s wrist, places the smooth flat of his palm on his chest. “Feel it.”</p><p>Iwaizumi’s soul leaves his body. He stares at Oikawa, his pink ears and pink face and pink lips, parted and looking very kissable. He asks, “Do you feel the same way? Can I kiss you?” </p><p>“Of course, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa sounds breathless. Iwaizumi is not sure about what he is saying <em> of course </em>to, but then Oikawa leans in so, so close, and it’s both, he is definitely saying yes to both. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>So what if Iwaizumi has his first kiss on his roof? So what if he cups Oikawa’s jaw and kisses him deeper and pulls away blushing and feeling lighter than he has ever felt before?</p><p>So what?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>hey iwa-chan</p><p>are we actually dating</p><p>was that just a joke</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>I DONT KNOW</p><p>FUCK</p><p>Sorry capslock</p><p>I dont know</p><p>Was it a joke?</p><p>Do you actually like me</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>god hello good morning fuck waht thefuck</p><p>also ywah i do like u</p><p>why would i be joking about that</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>IDK??!!</p><p>Why would /i/ joke about thaft???</p><p>I hate you</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>Can i come over .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>i have to do school things</p><p>we can facetime</p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>No</p><p>It’s not the same</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>do you wanna kiss or something</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>do u</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>shittykawa</b>
</p><p>Iwa-chan?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Me</b>
</p><p>I am coming over.</p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi comes over.</p><p>“Do you still like me?” he asks, still standing at Oikawa’s front doorstep. No hello, no how are you, no good morning, no anything.</p><p>Oikawa frowns. He is wearing his kitty headband, the one he puts on whenever he washes his face. “I thought we already established this. How much do you think can change in ten hours?”</p><p>“I don’t know. A lot. Are you not regretting anything right now?”</p><p>“Too many questions. We are boyfriends,” Oikawa says, decidedly. He takes his hand and reddens, looks down at his feet. “This is really embarrassing.”</p><p>“Yes.” Iwaizumi tilts his chin up and kisses him on a whim. Oikawa grins against his teeth.</p><p>It feels right.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Everything changes but stays the same, somehow. Like the gaps in the time they spend together are filled in with kissing and hand-holding and hugging. Iwaizumi probably shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as he is.</p><p>The weirdest, strangest, <em> best </em>part of it all is how naturally everything falls in place, flows into a steady rhythm, so that it feels like they have been like this all along, when it hasn’t—it has only been two weeks.</p><p><em> Two weeks! </em>Iwaizumi racks it over and over again in his brain and it still makes no sense to him at all. It has felt like years and months and seconds and hours, all at once.</p><p>Time flows differently when you are high on love.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi tells Grandmother over call. He had told Mother a few days ago over text, and she had congratulated him; he has yet to tell his father, though he is fairly certain he will take it well.</p><p>It is nice to hear Grandmother’s voice after so long, even if it is over the phone. Her words seep with comfort and contentment and Iwaizumi allows himself to miss her for the first time in a long time.</p><p>“I am glad you’re happy, Hajime,” says Grandmother. Her voice sounds cracked and rough like sandpaper. “I trust Oikawa will treat you well.”</p><p>“He is. Thank you. I love you, Granny.”</p><p>“I love you most.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last weeks of summer roll by like waves. Iwaizumi spends as much time as he can with his loved ones. Oikawa does end up meeting his mother as promised, over a simple dinner of sinigang, which Iwaizumi made himself. They click a little too well for Iwaizumi’s liking, but still, Mother likes him, and that’s all that matters.</p><p><em> Mother likes him, </em>his heart sings.</p><p>When they have finished dinner and Mother plants two kisses on Oikawa’s cheeks, Iwaizumi brings him over and kisses him silly, right there, right on their front doorstep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“A lot has changed these past few months,” Mother says one afternoon. They are sitting together on the porch. Oikawa is out with his family. “It makes me happy that we’re starting to spend time with each other again. And… I know it is my fault that we drifted apart in the first place, but—”</p><p>Iwaizumi places a hand over hers. “It’s alright, Ma. You did it for me.”</p><p>Mother looks at him and smiles. “Yes, I did.”</p><p>And she’s right, because her presence is becoming more familiar—less like a rare, surprising experience and more like something he looks forward to. He appreciates the time she sets aside from work to spend time with him. He does not need to say this out loud for her to know. There is no need for words in this family. Just time and <em> being there</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“School starts next week for me.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Oikawa runs his hand through Iwaizumi’s hair, rubs his thumbs over his jawline. “I will not be able to see you as much. Or talk to you as much.”</p><p>“Tooru, we literally live right across from each other.”</p><p>“I <em> know</em>, but still! I’ll be busy.”</p><p>“I’ll come over. Help you with your homework.” Iwaizumi lets out a breath. He can hear Oikawa’s heartbeat from where he rests his head on his chest. “Imagine we end up playing against each other for volleyball. Wouldn’t that be funny?”</p><p>“I’d kick your ass.”</p><p>“No, I would.” Iwaizumi jerks his head up to hit Oikawa’s chin, laughs at the loud cry that he lets out. “Sorry, fuck, sorry.” Giggles lace through his words, and he takes his boyfriend’s face in his hands and smiles.</p><p>“I am going to marry you one day,” Oikawa says, wincing when Iwaizumi pinches his cheeks too hard.</p><p>Iwaizumi reddens. “Stupid. What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean I’m going to marry you. For real. We’ll fly out to the Philippines and get married on one of those nice beaches with white sand.”</p><p>“Can’t. Same-sex marriage isn’t legal there.”</p><p>“The hell? Then we’ll get married here in California on a roof or something. Simple as that.”</p><p>“I’m not getting married to you on a roof, Tooru.”</p><p>“But you’ll still marry me, right?”</p><p>“Depends. We’ll see how it goes.”</p><p>“You’re never getting rid of me, Iwa-chan.”</p><p>He means it as a joke, but Iwaizumi knows this is true.</p><p><em>God have mercy on my heart</em>, he thinks, and leans in for a kiss.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But just like always, something in Iwaizumi’s life shifts, and the happiness is over, and things change.</p><p> </p><p>Things change, just like they always do.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mother wakes him up one night with tears in her eyes. She has just gotten home from work, still clad in her fancy clothes and smelling like vanilla. Iwaizumi sits up, asks what’s wrong. His head feels cloudy.</p><p>“Your grandmother,” she sobs, and says no more. She does not have to. Iwaizumi understands. He feels like someone has just punched him in the stomach.</p><p>Iwaizumi takes her hand, pulls her down onto his bed. He wraps his arms around her and strokes her hair. Together, they cry.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Me</strong>
</p><p>Tooru</p><p>Wont be able to make it tomorrow</p><p>My grandmother passed away.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>shittykawa &lt;3</strong>
</p><p>oh my god</p><p>fuck</p><p>im so sorry</p><p>that's okay</p><p>take your time</p><p>i love u</p><p>im sorry</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“The flight is in two days.”</p><p>Iwaizumi stares at the dull wood of the dining table. He thrums his fingers. Thump, thump. <em> Grandmother is dead. </em> He had cleaned out his room earlier, stuffed all his things in a luggage bag and some cardboard boxes. He still can’t believe it. <em> She’s gone. We’re leaving. </em> Thump, thump.</p><p>“We might not come back. Do you understand?” Mother sounds like she’s miles away. She puts a hand over his. “I’m sorry, Hajime.”</p><p>Iwaizumi looks up. “I have to tell Tooru.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He does, the next day.</p><p>“We’re going back to Manila tomorrow,” he says. Then, like a fading afterthought: “I think we should break up.”</p><p>Oikawa stares. Iwaizumi can feel his eyes, burning amber and beautiful, piercing through him. Iwaizumi’s nose is still stuffy. And his eyes are still red. When he had come over, Oikawa had asked what was wrong. Iwaizumi had thought: <em> Many things. Everything. I want to stay here. I want to stay with you. I want my grandmother back. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you. </em></p><p>He explains the situation. How his grandmother had died. How they needed to go back as soon as possible for the funeral. How they would be staying there forever. “We have to break up,” Iwaizumi says. “It’s for the best.” The words feel like cuts on his tongue. He refuses to look at Oikawa.</p><p>“Iwaizumi, you’re not making any sense.” Oikawa takes his hand. “It’s fine if you have to go. I understand that. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you. But we don’t have to break up.”</p><p>“I might not come back, Tooru. What if something happens and I stay there forever? What’ll happen to you? You would have kept your hopes up for nothing. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”</p><p>“Are you still in love with me?”</p><p>“Yes. Always.” Iwaizumi pauses, recollects his thoughts. “I’m not doing this because I don’t love you anymore. I just… I don’t want you to feel…”</p><p>“Don’t,” says Oikawa, and he cups Iwaizumi’s cheeks and looks at him like he’s made of everything good and beautiful in this world. “Don’t say that,” he says, quieter. The anger fades from his words, and bleeds into sadness. Tears gather on his lashes like stars. Iwaizumi feels a lump building in his throat. He is so beautiful.</p><p>Iwaizumi stares at him. His eyes. His lashes. His lips.</p><p>He wants to say: I love you more than you think. He wants to say: You changed me. He wants to say: You’re the one I was looking for all these years. I want more time with you. We deserved more time. More time. More.</p><p>Iwaizumi swallows the words and mumbles, “I have to go.”</p><p>“Kiss me,” Oikawa begs. “Please.”</p><p>Iwaizumi kisses him. Once, and then again. He pulls away. Oikawa’s hands come up to his face and graze against every inch of tanned skin. They explore his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, the bags under his eyes. Oikawa holds him with a certain pride and strength that boasts, <em> This is him, he is mine, my boy, my starboy. </em></p><p>Iwaizumi takes Oikawa’s wrist, pressing a kiss against the soft skin, quietly wishing for forever.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And then, a final promise:</p><p>“I’ll wait for you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi wakes up the next day half-dead and bleeding. It feels like that, anyway. </p><p>He clutches at his chest, the aching of his heart. He looks around at his room and feels a soft pang of regret. Goodbye. Goodbye.</p><p>(This is familiar. Iwaizumi’s done this before.) Goodbye. Goodbye.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mother waits downstairs. She has her carrier in hand and their tickets in the other. Lines crease her face, and dark circles hang under her eyes. Iwaizumi pulls her close and kisses her forehead.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They leave thirty minutes later. It’s seven in the morning. Oikawa probably isn’t even awake. He watches the houses pass by, houses he is not likely to see ever again. Goodbye. He casts his gaze on the California sky, the trees, the streets. Goodbye. He tries not to think about last night. He fails.</p><p>
  <em>Just when I felt like I knew you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If only we had more time.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They arrive at Manila the next day. The air is stuffy and hot and there are many people at the airport. Iwaizumi breathes in the thick atmosphere.</p><p>Home at last.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The funeral is a quiet affair. Iwaizumi looks at the faces of nameless relatives, somber-faced, dressed in black. His brain is still foggy with jet lag. The ceremony passes by in a blur of tears and disbelief. When his other relatives leave and only his close family remains, he walks over and stares at the headstone. The shiny marble. The shiny words. Grandmother’s voice echoes in his mind.</p><p>
  <em> Guard your heart.</em>
</p><p>I’m sorry. I’m sorry.</p><p>He wipes at his eyes, his cheeks, but the tears still spill over. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They have no home here. This becomes apparent very quickly.</p><p>They move in with Father’s sister, Tita Paulie (fifty years old, widowed), and her daughter Princess (quiet, fourteen years old, mature for her age).</p><p>Tita Paulie’s house is deep in the suburbs. Her house is different from what Iwaizumi is used to. Compared to the spotless and organized houses he had lived in before, here, Tita Paulie has hundreds, maybe thousands of trinkets lining the shelves on the walls—mugs, action figures, Barbie dolls, magazines. Dusty rugs of various colours cover the white-tiled floors and outdated calendars spread out on the faded yellow walls.</p><p>This is far from a bad thing, though. The mishmash feels familiar. It feels right.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Months pass. They never go back to Irvine. Iwaizumi had already known this would happen. It stings anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Iwaizumi gets a room to himself. It’s cramped with belongings and luggage and his bed is really just a thin mattress. But it’s cozy enough and Iwaizumi is really in no position to complain so he settles in fairly quickly.</p><p>He spends his days cooped up inside, drawing when he’s bored, or setting his volleyball against his fading yellow walls. Comes out for merienda in the afternoons and watches dramatic telenovelas with Princess. Helps Tita Paulie chop the vegetables, set the table, wash the dishes. Falls asleep to the sounds of rushing cars and airplanes soaring by overhead.</p><p>At night, he dreams of Oikawa. Dreams of his soft hair, of his rough palms, of his gentle kiss. He dreams of Irvine as well. The cool, sunny days. Laughter in the afternoons. The song of crickets in the night. He wakes up hurting all over.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>September comes alarmingly fast. Iwaizumi doesn’t go to school, but he wakes up early in the mornings anyway. He cooks breakfast; brushes Princess’ hair and helps her get ready for school; makes two cups of coffee for him and his dad. They drink it on the porch. Together, they watch a typical Manila morning unfold in front of their eyes. They seldom speak. Iwaizumi likes it better that way.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It is not hard to settle in Manila. Iwaizumi has plenty of experience, after all. And while droplets of Irvine still leak in the corners of his mind, he feels comfortable and safe. He practices Tagalog with Tita Paulie, and helps Princess with her homework. He is happy he has something to do—even happier because he is glad to do it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In December, Iwaizumi receives his first Christmas gift since he was seven years old.</p><p>“We got an apartment!” his parents exclaim, eyes teary, cheeks glowing. Outside, there are kids caroling and dogs barking and his mom insisted on blasting <em> It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year </em>on the speakers. He stares until it sinks in, and then he starts crying.</p><p>Iwaizumi hugs them both, and then his Tita Paulie, and then Princess. They’re moving in January, his parents say. A fresh start, Tita adds.</p><p><em> A fresh start. </em> Iwaizumi knows what that tastes like. He has had so many over these past few years that it shouldn’t be exciting anymore. But looking at his parents, at their crying, lovely faces, and looking back at how hard they had worked for him to be successful, he can’t help but feel like this time—this time, it <em> is </em> a fresh start, and there <em> is </em> something to look forward to.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Iwaizumi is still crying, thirty minutes later.</p><p>“Oh dear. What am I gonna do with you?” Father exclaims, like he’s mad, except there is a big, fat smile on his face. Iwaizumi hasn’t seen his dad smile in years. Scratch that. He hasn’t even had a proper conversation with his dad in years.</p><p>Dad grabs his face in his hands and laughs and laughs as his son sobs and snots all over him. “Grandma would be so happy,” Iwaizumi says, between heaving sobs. “I miss her so much.”)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They move near the end of January. Iwaizumi walks in their new apartment and sees the view from the balcony. Gazes at the island counter and the wooden door leading to an unseen room near the back of the condo. He turns to his parents and smiles a little, thinking: <em> This is what home looks like. </em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later that year, he enrolls in a university and meets people like him. People who grew up being tossed around to different countries, different places. He makes friends for the first time in a long time.</p><p>He takes up volleyball again, too. Four is his Grandmother’s favorite number, so he puts that on his jersey, and it doesn’t look half-bad on his back. She would be proud of him. She is proud of him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One morning, Iwaizumi sends a letter.</p><p>It is a letter that he’s been writing since August of last year. The words—wishes and promises and everything permanent—float around in his brain sometimes, reminding him of what once was, who he once had.</p><p>Today, he finally finishes it. Today, seven days before July 20, he sends it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oikawa,</p><p>Happy 18th birthday.</p><p>I’m thinking about last year when I first met you. You had stupid hair and a stupid smile and you were good at volleyball. All I wanted then was to know you. Your name, what kind of person you were, why you were so good at volleyball. I did not want to be friends with you. But I did anyway.</p><p>Remember when we celebrated your birthday on the roof? We sat on your roof and the sky was clear and I remember spending the entire day baking that cake for you, and it tasted so good, and I really hoped you would like it. I loved you so much, then, when I saw you and when you told me about how you appreciated my being there. I didn’t think it would mean so much to you, but it meant a lot to me, too.</p><p>I told my grandmother a lot about you. I think she knew I liked you even before I did. When you came over for merienda (do you still know what that means?) I was so happy because you liked the food. Grandmother loved you so much. She told me how much of a good boy you were. She said she could feel it. She could feel the love radiating from you. I believed her because I could feel it, too.</p><p>All those nights on the roof. All the times we raided the 7/11 and I risked my taste buds to have those Slurpees with you because I couldn’t stand saying no.</p><p>And when you helped me that night, and when Grandmother left and you kept me company. You were there for me. I had felt so alone those times but you were there for me. You helped me so much and you didn’t even realize it.</p><p>I was happy. I felt so safe. I felt grounded, stuck to something. Stuck to you. Does that make sense? I felt like I had found something so important that I had to be with it at all times. It was you. You were so important to me. I knew I could trust you, because you were permanent. You were always there.</p><p>I wish I could come back. I just want you to know that I love you. Even after all this time. You’re all I dream about, Tooru.</p><p>I still love you. I always think about what you said about marrying me. I want to see you again. I am sorry, and I am grateful for everything. You changed me.</p><p>Iwaizumi</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>August.</p><p>Iwaizumi is nineteen years old and standing in front of Grandmother’s old sari-sari store. It is old and worn down and the only remnant of his time here is the flimsy age-old calendar from 1968 pinned up on the front. He remembers scribbling on it when he was only a toddler.</p><p>He reckons if he closes his eyes and concentrates he can pretend he’s six years old again and sticking his head through the small opening in the front where his grandmother would speak to customers. If he thinks harder he can feel the icy sweetness of a milk bar on his tongue, of the dirt on his palms and knees as he plays with the kids his age.</p><p>He opens his eyes and again becomes Iwaizumi Hajime, nineteen, student at some prestigious college in Manila, sports science major, volleyball enthusiast. He had only arrived here a few hours ago. Everything feels new and fresh and itchy.</p><p>He is meeting someone today. He had made a home out of the house across the street, out of the tender places in Iwaizumi’s heart.</p><p>Oikawa. His heart calls out for him. He turns. Speak of the devil.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, and the name tastes better than anything he has ever had before. Sweet, lovely, careful on his tongue. Tooru.</p><p>“Hajime.” That smile again, bright like the California sun, warm like a hug.</p><p>He is there. He always has been there for Iwaizumi.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Home. All Iwaizumi has ever wanted is home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>FINALLY IT IS FINISHED. GOD. WHAT THE HELL.<br/>this was such a rollercoaster for me to write yall so much happened in my life in the process of writinf this and the better half of it was written in liek 2 weeks UHMMM [scratches head] anyway this has a lot of projecting if you can’t tell feel free to perceive me i did this to myself. i hope u enjoyed luv u all [PASSES OUT]</p></blockquote></div></div>
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